


Sick

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Sickfic, no beta we die like men, pearson does his best, pearson is underrated, the gang goes through a round of flu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: rcris123 asked:REQUESTS!?!? Can I send one in??? bc I caught the flu I kept thinking about what would Mr. Pearson do if one or more gang members got the cold??? Did Arthur get the cold? Dutch?? Micah? Sean!?!? PEARSON HIMSELF!?





	Sick

## Arthur:

The one thing that living so close together is good for, is knowing when things are _off. _Pearson isn’t necessarily the most observant of the bunch, but he sees the way Arthur sniffles and coughs quietly. He bulked up on clothes too, even in the warmth of Valentine, his thick jacket is wrapped around him.

Pearson knows this means Arthur is sick, and he _also _knows that the man won’t ever admit it in fears of Grimshaw forcing him into bed rest.

Medicine isn’t in the realm of Pearson’s skills, but cooking is. He knows, ever since Arthur scuffed down half a stew pot alone, that the man loves venison, carrot and mushrooms stew. And by some miracles (names Charles) a deer had gotten dumped on his station earlier that morning.

Soup was also an idea that floated through Pearson’s head, he knows his mama always cooked hot chicken soup for him when he was sick as a boy, knows how warm it always made him feel. Problem is, he doesn’t have any chicken or chicken bones to use.

The next best thing it is, then: Vegetables.

In a smaller, mostly unused pot, Pearson starts picking the vegetables that Morgan isn’t opposed to (though he’ll never admit it, Arthur detests tomatoes, which is unfortunate seeing as most of the regular stew is tomato soup). Garnishing the pot with a few herbs that would help with the headaches and sore throats, Pearson sets it on the scout’s fire.

It’ll be a few hours before Arthur eats again, but Pearson is determined to give him a proper meal for once.

Finally, just in time with Arthur finishing up his chores for the day, the food is ready and bubbling. Sean pokes around the soup, but Pearson wacks him with a spoon, and the Irishman walks away grumbling. They can get a taste, just after Arthur gets his share.

“Mister Morgan!” Pearson calls, and Arthur, looking tired with sweat beading his forehead, waves at him with a smile, “Come along, I’ve made you some soup!”

“oh?” Arthur tilts his head, eyes filling with strange warmth as a tired smile graces his face, “What for?”

“You’re trying to hide it, my friend, but I can see you’re as sick as a monkey!” Pearson laughs lightheartedly, ushering Arthur towards the warm pot of soup, “Come on, take a bowl, I even squeezed some lemons into them,”

“thank you, Pearson, truly,” Arthur lands a hand on Pearson’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly, “thank you,”

Pearson doesn’t reply, only smiling proudly as he watches Arthur relax by the Campfire, slurping on his soup.

Later that week, Pearson finds a compass and a brand new kitchen knife, wrapped nicely in box brand paper, by his bedroll.

## Dutch:

Almost thirteen years now, thirteen years of running around playing cat and mouse with the law, and this is only one of the rare occasions where the camp is quiet in the evening.

Namely, Dutch isn’t talking about his plans or their purpose, hadn’t preached in a few days even. Pearson had heard tale of Dutch being sick, but it was such a rare sight that he truly didn’t notice it.

Once the word spreads, though, the signs were unmissable. Coughing, constant clearing of his throat, sitting as far away from the chatter as possible and drinking _tea _undead of coffee. Hosea fusses over him, which is a funny and heartwarming sight to see.

When the leader ends up in bed till noon though, forced into bed rest by Hosea, Pearson decides to lend a helping hand in the only way he can.

Dutch is a man of fine taste, he likes rich meats and flavourful foods. Pearson knows that Dutch likes certain meats over others, unlike Bill or Uncle, who Pearson thinks might actually have been born without taste buds with that garbage they eat up regularly.

Pearson corners Arthur, one bright day where Arthur’s presence is actually in camp and asks him for a favor. Just to pick some things up from the Butcher, or hunt them if it isn’t too bothering. Arthur had raised an eyebrow at the meats and vegetables scribbled down, but nodded and headed into town.

Didn’t reappear till an entire day later, with an entire pig carcass on his horseback and his satchel full of personally picked vegetables.

It was more than Pearson could have asked for, but it sure was handy.

Pork stew was rare, just like Bear meat stew. The meat was usually expensive and hard to come by without a heap of trouble from local farmers. But Dutch liked it, and Pearson was aiming to better his moods.

It took almost an entire evening, scraping bone from muscle and muscle from the skin, but it sure was a nice pelt, made for a fine mat for the Campfire.

Hosea sniffed at the odd colored stew, not red as usual, and actually has herbs like rosemary and oregano flowing on top. He gave Pearson a knowing look, smiling afterward and pulling Dutch out of his tent to have dinner with them.

“Wow,” Dutch said hoarsely, and Hosea cackled delightfully. Once the bowl was finished, and another was filled and shoved under Dutch’s spoon, Hosea approached him.

“This is the most he’s eaten in days,” he says, eyes alight with relief, “Thanks, Pearson”

“Just doing my job, Mister Matthews,” Pearson replied, averting his eyes, though pride wormed in his chest and spread up to his neck.

“Still, thank you,”

## Sean:

The Irishman was quiet for once.

Pearson found it amusing how pissy he was, too. Didn’t even drink anymore, still overslept though, according to Grimshaw’s clock.

He sniffles and sneezes coughs when he thinks no one’s looking, and on one occasion, Pearson found him throwing up. Though, he thinks that may have been the whiskey settling wrongly with his cold.

“it’s like me mind gonna explode!” he whines, Lenny lending an ear, “all fuckin mornin’ can’t catch a break, Grimshaw on me ass too,” he mumbles, and Lenny consoles him like a good friend.

Pearson knows the struggle, having been sick multiple times and having to work despite how lousy he felt.

He knows one thing that always sets the Irishman’s mood though!

Chocolate!

Pearson was no baker, but he had a little bit of knowledge when it came to desserts. He bets he can use one of the bars Arthur had brought recently and made a tasty delight to stop Sean from brooding too long.

It’s more of a wing-it deal than a recipe, but his mama always made him strawberry chocolate when he was sad, and when he first joined the Marines, he remembers eating a batch of them before leaving his home.

It held a special place in his heart, and he hopes the sugar will lighten Sean’s mood. It certainly will for Jack, who had poked his nose around the station when he noticed that Pearson bought strawberries and bananas. The chocolate part was fairly easy, just setting the chocolate over the fire for a minute or two and stirring it till it was deliciously smooth.

Jack almost dipped his entire hand in the pot, only to be saved by Tilly, who had swooped him off his feet before disaster hit.

“What’re you making, anyway?” she asked, after handing Jack safely over to Abigail.

“Chocolate cover fruits, for the sickly of us,” he points at Sean and Tilly nods, smiling as she left to return to her work, needling away at torn clothes.

Sean had been on guard duty when the deed was done and the plates were ready. Pearson had handed Tilly and Dutch each a plate to share with however they’d like, saving one for himself and one for Sean.

It didn’t seem like the Irishman would change posts with anyone for a while. The bananas would darken by then, and Sean was already a picky eater when it comes to anything that’s not cooked over a fire. He spotted Jack cleaning his hands from the chocolate, mouth also covered almost up to his cheeks, but he looked happy enough. When the boy caught Pearson’s eye, he excitedly shouted a praise, making his way to Pearson while bubbling with excitement.

“You liked the treats, I’m guessing?” Pearson laughed as Jack dramatically nodded.

“it’s so good! Even Uncle Arthur ate a piece and said it was!” Jack gushes, “who are those for?” he asks, pointing to the stall where the two last remaining plates waited to be eaten.

“ones for your uncle Sean, ones for me,” Pearson replied, “do you mind handing Sean his plate?” he asks after a moment of thinking, and Jack shook his head, stretching his hands out to catch the plate.

With the plate secure in Jack’s grip, Pearson watches Jack walk carefully over to where Sean is guarding. He watches as the Irishman grins down to little Jack, and grabs the plate, propping his gun against a tree and settling on the soft grass.

His entire posture relaxes as he dips his fruit in the pooling chocolate, handing one to Jack after the kid sat beside him. Jack must’ve said something because Sean laughed loudly before shoving another bite into his mouth.

That was enough of an indicator, he had done his job. He can officially celebrate.

## Micah:

Micah walked with a certain layer of swagger like he knows something that none of the rest do, or he’s assured that he’s God’s favorite and thus can walk around acting like a prick without any fears.

Today, though, his shoulders are hunched and his hat his cast low across his face, hiding his expression from anyone’s view. He grumbles at anyone passing by, not necessarily maliciously. His jacket is buttoned up, and his coffee is replaced by an ugly looking brew. Green and grey, with herbs looking like they’d been thrown against their will and gods intention into the same cup.

Pearson deduces with infinite amounts of wisdom, that Micah is, indeed, sick. His appetite doesn’t compare to how he used to eat, and he’s no longer blowing bluster into everyone’s faces. He’s quiet, reserved and acting quite decent for his usual self. He even sat beside Reverend without making fun of him or calling him a lowlife.

Micah may not be Pearson’s select favorite (that would be Tilly), but he’s a gang member, and by God, if he will watch that man wince every time he sips on his diabolical ungodly brew.

Prompted only by his utter disgust towards the drink and only a little bit by his loyalty, Pearson asks for some Gensing from Hosea and borrows some Sage from Arthur. He boils some water, dumping the herbs in and adding only a little bit of sugar so it doesn’t taste absolutely awful.

Once the tea (brew?) has cooled enough to not scald one's tongue, he pours it into a cup and marches over to where Micah was sitting looking half dead and wishing for eternal sleep.

“Mister Bell,” Pearson greets, “I’ve noticed you’re sick, and I’ve _also_ noticed that what you’re drinking isn’t going to help, so, here,” He places the cup gently on the table “some Gensing and Sage to help with your cold,”

Micah stares at him, eyes narrowed in suspension before reaching out for the steaming cup, sniffing it once before taking a sip.

Pearson doesn’t know what Micah was expecting, honestly, he knows Micah may not be the most favored amongst them, but it wasn’t like Pearson is going to poison him.

At least so _openly_.

“Thanks, Pearson,” Micah says undecidedly, after a moment, taking another sip, “This… It helps,”

“No problem, Micah,” Pearson nods slightly, “Get well soon,”

## Pearson:

He can feel the symptoms coming ever since they started to set up in Horseshoe. The constant headaches that make him feel like he’s floating, the pressure behind his nose, the numbness and the way he seems to space out more frequently.

He doesn’t do something to stop it, unfortunately, so the symptoms fester until he’s entirely sick. Sniffling hard enough that he excuses himself and hands Grimshaw the stew to continue. Coughing until his throat is raw, generally being miserable.

Hosea had offered him some Gensing, which helped, but it wasn’t enough to stop his spirits from dwindling down to its very embers.

He tries to cheer himself up as much as possible, cooking easy food that would leave the rest of the day to himself, asking Javier to play a certain song, fishing to calm his headaches. But the one thing, _the one thing, _that he knows will hold his spirits up _and_ help for a good while is his favorite soup.

Onion soup.

Which is surprisingly hated amongst the gang, but they’ll have to make due. He’s already chopping the onions and preparing the spices, and they have a stew cooking already, so they can’t really complain.

The smell of the soup fills his nose aromatically, and he savors how it warms his chest just from _smelling_ it. The recipe is one of his Great Great Aunt’s, one of her best. He remembers when his grandma would visit and make this soup, she was such a sweetheart, even if she was a little pushy when it came to Pearson’s studies.

By the evening, the soup was ready, and Pearson could finally eat his meal. It tasted like home, warm and thick and rich in taste. Reminds him of when he was only a little boy and had little care, didn’t have the law on his back and didn’t need to send letters to his family under a pseudo name.

Just for a little bit, he was back in Texas, back home with his mother, singing a cheery tune while his uncle played the harmonica.

It made him fill with warmth, and for a second, he forgot that he was sick.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: Samwrittenbysam


End file.
